It was one morning in the country,
when my entertainers and my fellow guests had gone out in pursuit of
some sport at which I was no good. I was in the smoking room, reading
a book. Suddenly--no, Brett never appeared anywhere suddenly. Brett
appeared, paused at precisely the right speaking distance, and said in
a low voice, `I thought it might interest you to know, sir, that
there's a white-tailed magpie out on the lawn. Very rare, as you know,
sir. If you look out of the window you will see the little fellow
hopping about on the lawn.' I thanked him effusively as I darted to
the window, and simulated an intense interest in `the little fellow.'
I greatly overdid my part. Exit Brett, having done his to perfection.
What worries me is not that I showed so little self-command and so
much insincerity, but the doubt whether Brett's flawless technique was
the vehicle for an act of true good feeling or was used simply for the
pleasure of using it. Similar doubts abide in all my special memories
of him. There was an evening when he seemed to lose control over
himself--but did he really lose it? There were only four people at
dinner: my host, his wife, their nephew (a young man famous for
drollery), and myself. Towards the end of dinner the conversation had
turned on early marriages.
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